


The Ghosts in Winterfell

by Ashesintheair



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:08:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashesintheair/pseuds/Ashesintheair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Starks in Winterfell, at the end of everything. Spoilers for all books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghosts in Winterfell

Sansa looked up at the pale fingers of the weirwood. It had been years since she had seen it but somehow every other heart tree over the years had been reflections of this one, and her heart had always been here, buried deep under the carpet of snow and red leaves.

She didn’t sit in the place where her father had always sat - it still felt wrong to do so and she left the space empty for him, as though he had just walked off to see Mikken and might return at any moment.

Her mittens were wet from brushing the snow away so that she could sit and she squeezed her hands together for a little extra warmth, while her feet shuffled in the deep snow, clearing the ground around them.

She knew her brother was there when the great black direwolf came bounding through the trees, scattering the snow. He was still wilkd and couldn’t stand to be long away from Rickon or confined in any way. And after everything she had seen and heard, Sansa wouldn’t have parted the two of them for anything in the world.

Rickon appeared a few moments later, silent in stark contrast to Shaggydog’s noisy entrance. The young lord didn’t speak much and his face was unreadable.

“It isn’t what it was,” he said. It was hard to look at him and see all the lost years. He had grown almost into a young man in the time they had been apart.

She looked up at the stone walls. Winterfell was no longer a smoking ruin but there was still much work to be done. “The stonemasons have finished the eastern wall. It will be whole again soon enough.”

“Whole and still broken,” Rickon said. “Like us.”

He walked to the heart tree and sat in his father’s place, ignoring Sansa’s flinch as he did so. His eyes mapped the face carved into the weirwood. “Hail brother. We will take care of Winterfell.” The words were strangely archaic in his young voice and some part of the mask slipped for a moment. “Shaggy misses Summer,” he added softly and Sansa couldn’t watch as red streaked down the white and the impassive face wept.

Her sister would be in the Godswood too, silent as a shadow, swift as a deer. Arya was no less wild than Shaggydog, but far more terrible. Sansa wondered privately if there was any chance of Arya ever finding her way back from the fearsome creature that she had become, and part of her thought that her sister had only hazy memories of childhood at Winterfell.

Rickon was right. They were whole and broken. No Robb, no Bran, no Lady. Nymeria roamed the forests of the North as Arya flittered shadow like through the trees.

Sansa caught a glimpse of dark hair against snow and turned. Arya’s face - her own, thank all the gods, old and new - was blank. Nothing reached her and Sansa had caught herself wondering if one day Arya would forget everything and kill them all out of reflex alone. The thought felt like a betrayal and she pushed it away forcefully, gritting her teeth against it. It wasn’t time to give up just yet.

“I believe there will be lemon cakes later.” She smiled at Arya, meaning it as a joke, albeit a rather feeble one. Arya cocked her head, birdlike, and there was a glimmer in her eyes that Sansa thought she recognised. It was difficult to be sure - it was long ago for her as well, and Arya was only there for a moment and then gone again.

“We are the ghosts in Winterfell,” Sansa said, using the smile to take the grim edge from her voice. “And there must always be a Stark here.”

Rickon glanced back at the heart tree. “There always will be.”

She opened her mouth to reply and was hit full in the face with a snowball. She choked back a cry of surprise and shivered convulsively as the snow started to melt and run down her neck. She wiped away what she could and looked up. Arya was stood, not far away, idly tossing another snowy missile up and down with one hand. She wasn’t smiling, but the corner of her mouth was upturned and there was bright life in her eyes.

The second snowball caught Sansa on her arm and she laughed, the sound loud and uncontrollable and full of hope as it curled up around the weirwood fingers of the heart tree.


End file.
